Six Stretches and Hold the Designated Pose for Ten Seconds.
After another day of going through the grinding gears of monotonous jobs, a mouse and a buck practice a common ritual in a bar bathroom.
I could barely smell anything besides my sour breath and dry mouth when exiting the crowded dive bar. Licking my lips was half an attempt to obtain comfort and half to draw the attention of the towering red tail buck beside me. By now, he was hot in the face from the shots I forced him to take minutes prior. As he downed each one I had gripped his forearm, giggling like an idiot and encouraging him to the next one. Half of an erection was straining to speak over the chatter around the entrance. People leaning against the brick exterior mirroring the form I shifted my cock into uncomfortably. My focus wandered, dragging groggy drunken eyes to the buck now looking up at nothing.
"So, what are you doing tomorrow?" he asked. His dress shirt was stretched farther over his wide chest with each slow deep breath. I didn't attempt to speak softly, only wishing to be closer to him even if only by a few inches.
"With some luck...waking up satisfied," I responded, the alcohol annihilating any ability for me to play this game slowly.
"Are you sober enough to...?" he hinted with his eyes now closed, anxious for my response.
"Are you?" I asked impatiently, pulling out a crumpled box of cigarettes.
We let the question hang in the air while I lit a flare of reprieve from his prodding, staring down at my feet.
He always rattled through these questions. Murmuring and nervous toward the lust driven office drone he now called a partner. As a recipient, an aging gray field mouse, I was often confused by the ways he approached. Even though it irked me at times, I knew it was a simple impulse. We were both soaked in our depravity, saturated to the point of it being routine. Difficulties even arose sometimes in forgetting that in place of sweet nothings and soft kisses, there were bruises and begging for a descent into a familiar place. We were still wearing our work clothes, wrinkled and soaking in the sweat from the humid summer evening. Even standing in a haze of nicotine and cheap beer I already smelled his musk like a familiar dish. It was warm, acidic and dusty like the old synthesizers that crowded his living room. His piss and cum were the same, sour from cheap takeout and protein shakes. I ruminated on the variety of sounds and sensations that was held on a string in front of me. Drool soaked the end of my cigarette, my tongue dancing at the thought of this ending with me battered and exhausted.
"Look," I said , flicking the dying butt on the sidewalk. He finally looked down at me, standing taller than usual. Desperation to smell, taste, and consume him was bleeding through my usual stoic nature like a bandaged wound. With only a few steps I was closer, grabbing his thin cheap dress shirt. Pulling myself into him was easy, resting the side of my head against the sound of the alcohol-tainted blood rushing through his body. "I want to fuck..." I mumbled, staring absentmindedly at some swans talking and laughing loudly in the parking lot across the street. I could hear his heartbeat quicken at the sudden demand.
"We can do that..." He whispered, wrapping an arm around me.
Even on days with me being overwhelmed with cataloging and him barely able to sit more than a second before being needed to repair another venture capitalist's ego I craved him over and over. At first it was a turn-on for him but then it almost scared him how little he wanted to deny it. It was funny to think that a behemoth in marketing was afraid of a reclusive mouse but I digress. Excitement sobered me when my hands made contact with his hips.
His breath hitched when I moved further, sliding my hands under his shirt. His breath became uneven while I massaged portions of his torso greedily. Shivers became tremors throughout his body, the growing sensitivity drawing me closer. I already knew what I wanted, pulled now into action. I guided him back into the bar holding his clammy hand the entire time.
"W..we're going to miss the train," he stuttered nervously as we crowded into a stall in the bathroom near the back. His weight flopped down on the metal toilet to be eye level with me.
"The train..." he started before I kneeled in front of his crotch. His zipper barely came down halfway before I could smell him. It was the sharpness of his fur and sweat intensified even further. Acidic like citrus but no sweetness to follow which often sat on my tongue and nose for days no matter what I did to clean it off. His arousal screamed at my senses, drowning out everything else. I took my time noticing the strands of pre collecting on the sieve of gray boxers. The fabric crowded my senses further as I lapped at it lovingly, tasting layers of stray piss and mucus from throughout the day that collected between his lips and the cheap fabric. He moaned with every bump and push against his covered labia. My hands cradled the outside of his thighs as I made out gently with the growing wet spot. The deeper I pushed my maw, the harder I began pushing my fingers into old bruises from when I tied rope too tightly around his form. His hands clapped over his mouth when I dove in further. A wave of fluid pushed past the boxers and drowned my nose in something akin to liquid fire, almost synthetic in its strong scent and even stronger reaction in my head. Swiftly and trained, I pulled away and pushed his boxers and pants down to his ankles. It was beautiful and swollen like a flower of flesh, a small piercing swinging from the clit like a bell at the entrance of a chapel. My tongue shoved roughly into his chamber with little care, my nose rattling his clit as I growled and gurgled through another wave of thick discharge. The mucus was almost sickening with how viscous it got at times, clogging my senses with webs of aged musk. It reminded me of rotting fruit with a festering sweetness that was almost stomach-churning. It mixed in with the bitter sharpness of his flesh to create a palette that felt so perfect. At some point in my gorging of him, his thighs closed around my head tightly on the cusp of killing me. His orgasm was stronger than any other sensation making my eyes roll up to look up at the dark shapes that danced in my vision. The fluids turned from a thick secretion to the thin burning piss I recognized immediately. When he let me go he left me to land on my ass with a grunt. His overstimulation and my burning lungs created a chorus of panting and a pair of unfocused gazes over the sound of his dwindling stream.
"F..fuck," He sighed, leaning back against the exposed brick. He removed one of his legs from the prison of his pants and lifted his legs against each wall. His antlers danced against the wall and made small grooves in the dull white paint.
"Just...please...," He heaved, widening his stance further. "Fuck me.."
"No..," I stated, with a strained voice. My pants bulged obviously with unsatisfied need.
I got up and began licking my maw and hands before turning to him, still trying not to ask for more. "We'll miss the train," I said between soft licks, smiling when I saw him roll his eyes.